Tag Archives: saying goodbye

SLUGGER – By Maribeth Shanley

Sweet Slugger

I remember this day.  I put Slugger and Pooker in the back seat.
Pooker immediately climbed over into the front passenger side.  As I got in the car,
I looked back at Slugger.  This photo of him captures the essence of who he was.  He was laid back, sweet and had the biggest heart of any dog I’ve known.
*****

Slugger’s unexpected death marks the end of an era for Bob and me.

On Thursday, Nov. 29, 2018, Slugger passed. We thought and, more, hoped that he would be with us at least another year or two. It wasn’t meant to be.

Bob and I woke around 6 a.m. as one of our dogs was flaying on the bed. Getting knocked by a foot, we were startled out of our last few minutes of sleep. Bob sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. It was Slugger who was thrashing. We thought he was having a terrible nightmare, so we tried shaking him awake. No amount of shaking helped. It seemed he had lost control of his body.

As Bob climbed out of bed, I pulled Slugger close and held him in my arms as I stroked him and assured him he was safe. As long as I was holding him and stroking his head, he was calm. We both knew in our hearts that this was the end for our sweet little boy. Bob dressed as I reassured Slugger and kissed his head. Bob then climbed on the bed, and I handed Slugger to him, but not without another terrible bout of  lost control.

Once dressed, I leaned over the bed and picked Slugger up and carried him down to our jeep. Bob grabbed a blanket and a towel. He helped me climb in the back seat with our little bundle in my arms.

If you’ve ever had to climb especially into the back seat of a full-sized jeep, you know how difficult that is especially holding a child; in my case, a fur child. It’s like trying to climb a rock wall without the ability to grab something to hoist yourself up. With Bob’s help, we slid into the back as Bob helped me wrap the blanket around Slugger and slide the towel under his body. We had no idea what to expect next.

The Myrtle Beach rush hour was underway as Bob maneuvered his way through traffic as he had to slam on his brakes several times. Driving in Myrtle Beach is a nightmare any time of the year, but especially during the summer season or any major holiday.   Like leftover turkey, there was still leftover traffic from Thanksgiving weekend. The torons (a variation of morons for tourists) were still in town. Couple them with transplants from all sorts of States who brought their unique bad driving habits with them and you have a mess. There are several daily accidents on the route we were taking.   I gently reminded Bob that a seatbelt didn’t secure Slugger and me.

Slugger rested in my arms as Bob made his way to Banfield Hospital which is located at the back end of the PetSmart store.

Once Bob parked the Jeep, we walked into the store and began walking toward the back end.  As we passed the last aisle and made eye contact with Tracey, one of the receptionists, she said something to the other receptionist, got up and guided us to one of the exam rooms. Tracey intuitively knew why we were there.

Two year’s prior; we carried Slugger’s brother in only to find out he had diabetes. The familiar, kind receptionist, with a sad expression on her face, guided us to the room, said something and shut the door. Moments later, a vet assistant came in and asked a few questions. She pulled up Slugger’s computer record typed something in and told us she would get Dr. Chapman. Before she left, I tried to lay Slugger on the folded orange blanket the assistant placed on the exam table. However, Slugger immediately began thrashing again. So, I picked him up and backed up to the bench where I sat holding Slugger.  The assistant forced a sad smile, nodded approval, and left the room.

A few seconds later, Dr. Chapman followed by the assistant entered the room. The doctor picked up the orange blanket and tried to place it between Slugger and my lap. She acknowledged there was not much she could do for our boy as she also gently suggested that it was time for Slugger to leave. With tears in our eyes, we both acknowledged that we knew his time had come.

As I held a former fur child, Munch, so many years prior and felt her body go limp, I swore I would never go through that again. Now, however, I knew it was the only alternative. I also promised years ago that, if I can be there, no fur child of ours would ever die alone. Unless I die in my sleep, I hope I am not alone when I die. Therefore, how could I allow my child to die without being lovingly held close?

I pulled Slugger to my bosom reassuring him that it would be okay. As he stroked Slugger’s head, Bob, still standing also reassured him. The insertion of an IV into a vein caused a lot of blood, as the doctor quickly wrapped a bandage around Slugger’s leg to hold the IV and stop the flow. She talked to us, but I don’t recall a word she said. I’m sure she was explaining something when her assistant walked back in with a tray. As she inserted the first needle into the IV, she said, this will relax Slugger so he can pass quietly. She then stuck the second needle in and, because of what I was sensing from his body, I asked if it was instantaneous. She said yes as I also felt Slugger’s heart stop.

Dr. Chapman and her assistant left the room as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and began searching for the cremation service we used for both Pooker and Sissy, our cat who died shortly after our move to the Myrtle Beach area. Sissy was 21 when she passed in Bob’s arms.

As I talked to the female owner and spouse of the business founder, when I told her where we lived, she explained that they didn’t drive that far out. However, after I told her we wanted to bring Slugger home so our other dog, Bailey and our two cats, Skeeter and Sassy could say good-bye, she acknowledged that she would make an exception. After all, we were permanent customers of the crematorium.

We explained our plans to the assistant who reentered the room. She retrieved a coffin-shaped box and laid it on the table. Bob helped me put our little boy in the box, remove his harness, and cover him again with the blanket we wrapped him in for the journey. As we walked out, we could hear gasps from the other two receptionists. Everyone knew both Slugger and Pooker. They were a favorite pair for the hospital staff.

As we arrived home, Bob carried the box with Slugger into the house. Bailey met us at the door. He was curious about where we had gone and where Slugger was. Bob lay the open box on the floor. He had questioned whether Bailey, who celebrated his first birthday in June of this year, would be traumatized. My gut told me he would not be as I reminded Bob that we gave Slugger the opportunity to say goodbye to Pooker. “My intuition tells me it’s a good thing to do. That way, Bailey won’t feel confused as to what happened to Slugger. Nor would the cats.”

Bob stood as I sat on the sofa. Bailey sniffed Slugger as did Skeeter. Sassy was asleep somewhere else in the house. Later, I realized that my intuition was right as I acknowledged that Bailey’s behavior was calm as if he recognized that death was the natural order of life.

Slugger is now in the hands of the crematorium owners. They will return him to us in a few days. They will place him and the blanket in a small box with scroll carvings on the lid and a gold plaque on the front. It will read:

SLUGGER
OUR SWEET LITTLE BOY
YOU GAVE US MORE THAN WE COULD GIVE YOU

Bob calls me the queen of catalogs because of all the catalogs I receive. I’ve been shopping over the internet way before it became popular, so everyone who gets a list of catalog buyers gets my name and address. I do love my catalogs with all the merchandise I can dream of buying. One item, in particular, speaks to me. It’s a doormat which reads, “Ring the doorbell, let me sing you a song of my people. The dog.” As such, let me sing you a song of my Slugger and Pooker. I promise not to keep you too much longer.

The day Bob and I met both Slugger and Pooker took place shortly after losing our first little boy, Skipper. Skipper also died from diabetes which is common in Schnauzers. However, unlike Type 2 diabetes for humans, canine diabetes is a death sentence. It behaves as does Type 1 human diabetes.

Skipper died the first evening we moved from Naperville, IL to rejoin Bob in the Nashville, TN area.

Skipper wasn’t gone long before Bob expressed, “Maribeth, you need another dog.” Unsaid was the same for him. “We” needed another dog to fill the hole left by Skipper.

Skipper was a Miniature Schnauzer. We fell in love with his breed, and, so we decided to find another miniature.

Bob contacted a professor who taught at the University of Tennessee. He owned and showed schnauzers. He gave Bob the name of a married couple in the Knoxville, TN area who bred and showed schnauzers. The couple’s two females had just birthed a litter each. Most of the puppies had been spoken for, but, from talking to Bob said they had a male who would be a perfect match. That puppy was Slugger.

The day we drove to John and Diane Steffy’s house, I felt completely detached from reality. I was still deep in mourning of Skipper, My Little Boy Blue. We sat on their sofa as John brought two puppies into the room. One of the puppies was energetic and playful. He ran around the room chasing toys. The other puppy walked over to me and raised himself so that his front paws rested on my knees. As I looked at him, I immediately fell in love with him, so I picked him up as he rested on my lap. Still feeling removed from the event, about a half hour later, Bob said, “It’s decision time, Maribeth.”  I responded, “Well, if I have to choose, I chose this one (on my lap), but I’d like to take both of them home.” Although I was in a fog that day, my intuition was not at all asleep. I could tell from their behavior that both puppies were emotionally attached.   Diane Steffy said, “John and I will leave you two alone for a few minutes.”

Once gone, Bob asked, “Can we afford both puppies?” I am the designated financial officer in our marriage, so I knew from the huge profit from our Naperville home, we could indeed afford both. I said, “Yes.” The matter was settled. The Steffy’s returned to the living room, and we were soon on our way with the two puppies.

As we headed back to the Interstate, we decided to stop at the Petsmart store just off the exit to buy the boys collars and leashes. The smallest puppy who won my heart immediately fell to sleep. The happy-go-lucky dog who also sat on my lap now was wide awake. I could intuit that he wasn’t as sure of what was taking place as was his half-brother.

Before leaving the Steffy home, we learned that the puppies had the same father but different mothers. The smallest puppy was nine-days younger than the larger puppy. I had already decided that the larger puppy would be named Slugger after the Louisville Slugger baseball bat. I believe that Skipper had communicated that name to me during an earlier event. Bob liked the name. He would choose the name for the younger puppy.

As we pulled our vehicle into the Petsmart parking space, I could tell that Slugger still didn’t feel comfortable. I’m sure he could sense that my first choice was his smaller brother. Nonetheless, I was determined to change Slugger’s mind.

The puppies in the cart were a hit in the store. Once we made our purchase, a red collar, and leash for Slugger, and a blue collar and leash for his brother, we walked out to the parking lot. We opened the back door to our SUV, placed both puppies on the inside pad and put their collars and leashes on.   Bob grabbed the little puppy while I grabbed Slugger. The minute we put the puppies on the ground I saw a visible change take over Slugger. He was now confident that he was where he was supposed to be. It was amazing to see this event.  My intuition was alive and well. Slugger was going home.

Life with the puppies was a trip. Soon Bob asked if he could name the smaller puppy Pooker. It was a loving nickname he had given Skipper whom he would walk every day after arriving home from work.

One Sunday morning, as I sat at the kitchen table, I heard a strange noise. I called up to Bob and asked, “What are you doing up there. You’re making a lot of noise.” He answered, “Nothing. I’m sitting at my desk reading the newspaper.” I then thought, Uh, oh, what are the boys up to? I got up, walked into the foyer and turned to my left which was the dining room area of our very open floor plan. There the two dogs were. Pooker was down at one end of the huge dining room window, and Slugger was at the opposite end. The window sat only inches from the floor. They were facing each other as they ate the window sill working their way to the middle. The house and sill were brand new. We had purchased a spec house just in time before another buyer put a check down for it. And so began the story of our two sweet little boys who both grew to become wonderful grown-up boys. With all our hearts, Bob and I hope that one day, we will reunite with Slugger, Pooker and all our past wonderful fur children.  They all taught us far more than we taught them.  They love unconditionally, never consider divorce and bring us joy every minute they are near.

Until we meet again, sweet babies, play hard and love harder!

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Filed under Maribeth Shanley, memory

This Party is So Much Fun, I Wish it Never Had to End by Sherrie Hansen

We’ve been saying a lot of goodbyes lately. Last weekend, we drove 350 miles to help Mark’s aunt and uncle celebrate 50 years of marriage and to see relatives who came from Mississippi, California and North Dakota for the festivities. It was fun being with them, but then, after just a day and a half, we had to say goodbye.

Blog - Imix water

Yesterday, we celebrated my parents 60th wedding anniversary on the farm where I grew up. For the first time in years, all of their kids, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were together. They came from Boston, southern Brazil, Florida, Indiana, Illinois and Iowa. Cousins from Ohio, Washington, Colorado, North Carolina, Wisconsin and Denmark also came for the fun. What a grand time we had – and then, we had to say goodbye, until who knows when. Maybe never, since we’re so scattered. And because, sadly, nothing lasts forever.

Blog - KY - Mom and Dad

Today, we’re leaving for London, Devon and Cornwall, and then, Romania. It’s hard to say adieu to my bed and breakfast and tea house, and the people at church (my husband is a pastor) for three long weeks. I’m already having separation anxiety. Saying goodbye, even for a short time, is difficult for me. That’s probably the reason I keep revisiting castles, kilts and stone cottages in my Wildflowers of Scotland novels. I’m just not ready to say goodbye to Rose and Ian (Wild Rose), Isabelle and Michael (Blue Belle), or Violet and Nathan (Shy Violet).

Shy Violet

But there are much harder goodbyes to anticipate, and I dread them. A few months ago, we attended the funeral of a family friend whose son was just one year older than I am. We were close in junior high and high school, but have lost touch since he lives far from our home town. After our brief reunion,  when we were saying goodbye, he very candidly said that this was probably the last time we would see each other – with his parents both gone, he has no reason to return to the area. The finality of the moment made me sad, yet it was nothing in comparison to the goodbyes he’d said to his father early that week.

Blog - WI2 - cemetary

We’ve had entirely too many funerals lately. This week, another dear family friend passed away. While I believe, as a Christian, that he will be reunited with his family and loved ones again one day in heaven, it’s still a hard adjustment to go from being together in the moment, to waiting years – perhaps even decades – to be together again.

blog - graves

When we were dancing and having fun at Uncle Frank and Aunt Pat’s anniversary party up north, our six-year-old granddaughter said, “This party is so much fun that I wish it could go on forever.” I felt that way yesterday at my parent’s party, too.

Blog - Imix

The thing is, everything in this life is transitory. One party ends, and we say goodbye, and then we’re invited to another, and another, and new things spring up from the old. A tree that we’ve grown to love falls or is cut down, and then, a few months later, there’s a wildflower, or a new tree growing out from what’s left of the stump. We hope for the harvest in the long cold winter, and then come spring, we plant our fields again.

Blog - stump

Knowing that something beautiful will rise from the ashes doesn’t make saying those final goodbyes easier, but it does keep us looking up, moving on, and always looking forward to the next party.

Blog - Lupine

So for now – so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye. I’m winging my way to Europe, but I’ll be back before you know it. And, I promise, we’ll party until the sun goes down… or maybe I should say, until the sun rises on a new day.

Blog - Sunset

 

Sherrie Hansen’s Bio:
Twenty-four years ago, Sherrie rescued a dilapidated Victorian house in northern Iowa from the bulldozer’s grips and turned it into a bed and breakfast and tea house, the Blue Belle Inn.  Sherrie has also lived in Colorado Springs, CO, Augsburg, Germany, Wheaton, IL, and Bar Harbor, Maine. She grew up on a farm in southern Minnesota. After 12 years of writing romance novels, Sherrie met and married her real-life hero, Mark Decker, a pastor. They now live in 2 different houses, 85 miles apart, and Sherrie writes on the run whenever she has a spare minute. Sherrie enjoys playing the piano, photography, traveling, and going on weekly adventures with her nieces and nephew. “Shy Violet” is Sherrie’s eighth book to be published by Second Wind Publishing.

Links:

http://www.facebook.com/SherrieHansenAuthor
https://sherriehansen.wordpress.com/
http://www.BlueBelleInn.com or http://www.BlueBelleBooks.com
https://twitter.com/SherrieHansen
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2870454.Sherrie_Hansen

https://www.pinterest.com/sherriebluebell/

Books Titles: Wildflowers of Scotland novels – Thistle Down (a prequel novella), Wild Rose, Blue Belle, Shy Violet. Night and Day, Love Notes, and the Maple Valley Trilogy – Stormy Weather, Water Lily, and Merry Go Round.  

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Filed under Sherrie Hansen, Travel

Goodbye

Several months ago, a dear friend called to say goodbye. Like in… forever. I was shocked when she told me why she was calling. I was something else, too. Grateful.

I knew she wasn’t well and hadn’t been for quite some time. Congestive heart failure was one of the ailments on her long list along with others I couldn’t begin to pronounce. She said she was calling because she wanted me know how much our friendship meant to her and she wanted to thank me before she became too ill. Wow.

My mother battled with terminal cancer for many years before she died. During that time, she and I had the opportunity to set up the closure we both needed, but when my father died, it was sudden. He had a heart attack and was gone before I got to him. I remember the feelings of shock, disbelief, awareness of unanswered questions and great loss, that stayed with me. There was no closure and that still haunts me. But parents are different, aren’t they?

A couple years ago one of my best friends succumbed to prostate cancer. He had been treated successfully for several years and then the disease was back with a vengeance. We e-mailed back and forth occasionally, but I didn’t realize how quickly his illness had progressed and before I knew it, he was in the hospital and his brother wasn’t allowing any visitors or phone calls. He died and I never got to say, goodbye.

Another best friend was an artist and we shared our great love of art in many forms. We didn’t call or write often, but when we did contact one another, we just picked up where we had left off from the previous conversation.

I was working on a project and decided to run some ideas by her so I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Her husband answered. When I asked to speak with her, he told me she’d had a rapid-growing brain tumor and had passed away three months before. I couldn’t believe it! We were best friends. How could I not know she was ill, much less that she had died?

Again I was sick with shock and grief. As I sat stunned with sorrow, I recalled the news of another friend who had committed suicide. Each death was different, but my feelings about them were the same; profound sadness and the realization of the permanency of my sense of loss. I felt disappointment, even anger that I didn’t have the chance to say, goodbye. I didn’t have closure. Loss was loss. Whether it related to parents or friends, it was the same heart-wrenching pain.

In my first paragraph, I spoke of a friend who called to say, goodbye. She’s still living and she and I call each other every other week or so to reiterate our feelings of friendship and camaraderie. As time goes by, I can sense in her voice the progression of her disease and sometimes she hasn’t the strength to talk for long, but I appreciate her even more and I’m  grateful for this opportunity. If  her time is up before mine, I will have closure. I’ll be sad, of course, but I will also have the comfort of knowing we made the most of our friendship in the time we had left. I think she feels the same way.

This whole experience has changed how I relate to other friends and to my relatives. Since my stroke last summer, I realize my existence here on Earth could be shortened or ended at any second, so I’ve decided to be like my friend and let people know now how dear they are to me, and do it often. I’ve also decided not to fret over people who disappoint me or who don’t value me. I’ve decided to be influenced by more positive things than negative ones and to truly be grateful for and rejoice in each day.

As a result, I’ve found dealing with thoughts of end-of-life has given me a renewed lease-on-life replete with love and gratitude.

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Filed under life, musings